


No one else visits

by dashloid



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Flashbacks, Foreshadowing, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashloid/pseuds/dashloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of flashbacks of Merlin and Harry working their way through the 1990's, separately and together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one else visits

**Author's Note:**

> I do admit that at some point I started duct-taping headcanons together instead of maintaining a story, so this might be a bumpy ride. My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, if everything is mildly askew. 
> 
> (Also my apologies for any damage done unwittingly to the mighty English language.)

_“Has anyone ever told you how creepy that dog is?” Merlin closes the door behind him as late Mr. Pickle gives him a sad glassy stare._

_“Well, you told me enough times, and it’s not like anyone else visits,” Harry replies from a room upstairs, his voice bouncing off the walls and carrying all the way to the kitchen. Already, Harry doesn’t as much speak as he narrates. Galahad mode on. At 9 AM, for god’s sake. “It’s there because in all other rooms it looks even creepier, and I’m not throwing it away.”_

_“Maybe it’s exactly the reason no one else visits?”_

_“Maybe I don’t want them to?”_

_Harry Hart walks into the kitchen, clicking a cufflink into place, his wrist to his face. Merlin always wonders how Harry pulls that off. The world could end, and Harry’s morning look would be as neat._

_“So,” Merlin walks past a steaming tea pot, sits down at the table and begins scrolling through his mail on the clipboard. “Did Arthur give you the classist talk about young Eggsy yet?”_

_“He only had one day for that, give him time, he’s an old man.”_

_“I honestly thought he’d just choke on that overpriced cognac the moment I gave him the list.”_

_“Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Harry arranges two cups on the kitchen table and pours tea. “Sugar?”_

_“Two.”_

_Harry drops two spoonfuls into the cup, stirs, and adds some milk without asking._

_“This whole concept of people holding on to their jobs till they die will bite this agency in the arse one day,” Merlin accepts the cup and switches the clipboard’s screen off._

_“This country is a monarchy, Merlin, that concept has been biting us all for centuries.”_

_Merlin chuckles, gulps his tea and snatches the clipboard from the table._

_“I’ll take the car. The_ car _car, not that ridiculous cab thing.”_

_“I was hoping to take the car really,” Harry gestures at his own outfit as if it’s too good for any other kind of transport. It might be, actually._

_“Harry-”_

“Galahad.”

***

At some point they decided to only use codenames. Like those undercover agents that only speak their assumed agenda language. Percival, for instance, has always been good at that linguistic thing, and probably too good. Soaked up the words like a sponge. Merlin would call him to check how the mission was going, and Percival would spout Norwegian or Russian at him, till Merlin loudly demanded him to stop. Luckily, “stop” was more or less the same word in many languages, but the first few times the experience was agonizing, urgency of the mission giving no space for idle word-fencing.

Kingsman’s order and techniques were a lot to get used to.

Lifted from the army, (he used that word, “lifted”, not “promoted”, as if the agency pocketed him like a cheap figurine in a supermarket) Merlin didn’t take the Kingsman tests that later became obligatory and almost symbolic. He didn’t even get a dog. Whether it meant he was accepted automatically or that he had no need to effectively work with others, he wasn’t sure, or tried not to think about. There _were_ others in the HQ, but they functioned separately most of the time. Morgan, a short wide-hipped girl with the kindest face Merlin had ever seen, who showed him around, and ended the tour with saying “great nose, by the way” before disappearing into her office. Morgause, a surly fellow with dark brown hair falling constantly over his left eye, shaking it off so often, that the headshake became an involuntary twitch. They had tea together sometimes, Morgan donating biscuits from her office, Morgause, to Merlin’s surprise, bringing home-baked cake. But they were officially categorized as supervisors, which meant they were to spend more time with the field agents than with each other, and Merlin still had to wait for his first mission.

Meanwhile he tinkered with gadgets, adding a thing here and there, sketching new ideas. The lighter grenade. The “stun” mode for the Rainmaker (after the army Merlin developed a certain distaste for unnecessary violence). A built-in screen for his glasses, which later became Kingsman’s most used item. The prototype, however, was a real precription thing, and Merlin – the only Kingsman who actually needed those at all times. There was a deeply ingrained irrational shame, a solid promise that no matter how good he was, field assignments were out of the question. You can’t shoot your enemy if you can’t even see them.

He trained nonetheless. An hour or two at the gym every evening, punching, kicking, lifting. A run every morning, around that mockingly serene mansion, gravel crunching under his trainers. The Knights would jog past him, solemn and disciplined, always in groups, like packs of dogs, Merlin watching them disappear slowly somewhere in the park as he lagged behind. By the 6th day he memorized each face, each agent wearing his own trademark expression. Sympathy, indifference, contempt. One of them, a tall lanky thing, almost Merlin’s height, once gave him what was probably intended as a smile, but looked more like a mocking smirk.

They were introduced later by Arthur, as the occasion presented itself. Lancelot with his sweet charm, silent intellectual Percival, vulpine Kay. And Galahad, of course, the crown jewel, the smug shit.

***

When Merlin finally got an assignment, of course it was Galahad that Kingsman threw at him. Still bearing the searing effect of that contemptuous smirk on his skin, Merlin held his clipboard too close to his face and recited instructions in a low monotone. Galahad, checking the switches on his Rainmaker and pausing at the new “stun” option, interrupted him as if it was no big deal “You don’t have the clearance to know the real names around here, do you?”

“No,” he lowered the clipboard and squinted - a habit of a short-sighted squint he was yet to get rid of.

“I’m Harry,” Galahad switched the Rainmaker to his left hand, reached out for a handshake, and added, when Merlin hesitated, “You don’t have to tell yours, I know you have rules to follow.”

“You’re not supposed to tell either.”

“Look, _Merlin_ ,” he said so pointedly that Merlin winced, “I don’t want to die with no one in the world knowing my name.”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t die on my first assignment.”

But Merlin couldn’t really tell if Galahad was really vain about that name of his, or just really scared.

***

“A spy organization is like an ancient god”, Harry said one day in a small pub after they finished a simple but messy mission. Tired, bruised, and now leisurely exercising his ability to play with words, “you sacrifice your youth, you sacrifice your social relationships, you most likely make a final blood sacrifice. If you're lucky enough you get a minor deity position, or a posthumous sanctification.”

Then he checked his cufflinks and went on with the conversation. Percival, sporting a cut on his eyebrow,  let out a single low chuckle, somewhat patronizing, but mildly amused. Ever-silent as he was, Percival in fact loved words with an almost religious dedication. The omnipotent, omnipresent words. Ancient gods didn’t affect him nearly as much.

Merlin didn’t find any of that funny. The only thing Merlin  thought was - you should choose your dedications carefully. And you should not joke about sacrifices.

***

The early 90’s were big in a naïve way that Merlin later missed and didn’t miss simultaneously. A nostalgia without real desire to return. Jurassic Park was in cinemas, Radiohead blasted from record stores (and record stores were still a thing), computers looked like garbage bins, clothes looked like garbage. Kingsman suits have always tended to stand out, but back then they stood out dramatically. You looked like you were going to a costume party. Harry, by then paired up with Merlin on regular basis ("He _actually listens_ when you tell him to do something", Arthur explained), relished that. Merlin just kept to the darker side of streets, trying to blend with walls. He switched to a simple military sweater finally, giving an – if not very subtle - nod to his previous occupation, and establishing his position as a tech _as opposed_ to field agents. He found his own place in Kingsman and burrowed like a forest animal.

The 90’s felt like early spring, still icy, but laced with a painful feeling of promise. He worked, and worked, and worked. So did everyone. Not everyone survived, so they all huddled together, even if in a polite distant fashion that would remain Kingsman’s curse and blessing.

Later Merlin always wondered how he barely noticed that they circled around each other, tentative, quiet and persistent. Harry walking into the control room, as the cyberwizards drank tea with one of Morgause’s cakes, glancing around quickly, and saying “Merlin?” instead of just handing them the task and letting them decide who’d work with it.

Harry pestering him with questions about equipment. Merlin not even noticing that the agent was smart enough to figure the codes and switches himself.

And that fucking lift thing in the shop that, even after being fixed and improved, still took ages to reach the station. Then in the beta-stage it lurched down like an amusement ride, and Merlin, stumbling, grabbed for Harry’s shoulder instinctively to keep balance. As he absent-mindedly held on for too long to his wool-clad elbow, Harry’s smirk crept back slowly, returning from that day he jogged past, self-satisfied and superior. Merlin felt his heart sink – a silly feeling in retrospect – as if he was found out by an enemy, simmering all the way to the headquarters as Harry eyed him, lounging in his seat on the underground train.

***

“Security system?” Merlin asked instead of a greeting, in a tone with which one usually offered a glass of water. “I’m installing the 3.1 version, remember?” He’d sent everyone a reminder, but somehow it never worked with these people. They probably needed a butler to announce their daily plans. When he rang the doorbell, Harry looked at him with utter confusion. He was dressed like he was about to go out.

“Ah, sure,” after a pause Harry suddenly flashed a toothy wide grin, fast and instantly fading, a limited-time offer. Harry rarely smiled with teeth.

A small terrier sprinted into the room from the kitchen, charging at Merlin directly, hopping over the doorstep, yapping and running in eights and circles around his feet. Merlin stood still, bag in hand, almost afraid to move and step on the dog, barely suppressing a smile. He was glad he didn’t take the gun test, but he’d always wanted a pet.

“Sorry about this,” Harry bent almost in half from his height to pick up the dog and shoo it into the kitchen, a shadow of that grin still playing on his face. A lock of usually perfectly combed hair fell on his forehead, and with that one detail he suddenly looked younger and more real. Galahad was a suit – a beautiful bespoke suit, but still a suit. Harry Hart was a young man who just happened to be a spy. How old was he then? 29? Not even 30. Harry Hart radiated life, something Galahad didn’t - wasn't allowed to - do.

Back in the lab, seeing the address on the list, Merlin had signed up for the security system task in some weird knee-jerk reaction. Now, dragging his blue equipment bag into the room and openly staring as Harry walked around and pointed at the wires, he felt out of place. The house was littered with things, walls covered in framed pictures, everything too lived-in to be inviting. He felt like he walked in on something more personal than etiquette allowed. He should’ve stayed in the lab with the tea and the cake. Morgause made some lemon-and-raspberry masterpiece that week.

“Do you ever think how rarely we see electricians, or plumbers or... mailmen in movies? I mean the real ones, not disguised robbers or, you know, porn plot devices?” Harry asked while poking around in the built-in electronics, squatting to check under a table and pulling on a transparent plastic box to get to more wires. He then paused and frowned, “Sorry, it’s the... the bag thing” he gestured at the equipment bag, Merlin just standing there with his eyebrows raised. “Oh god, sorry.”

Yep, Harry Hart was very much 29 years old. Lucky for him, Merlin was 26 and just as bad.

“It’s ok, I’m here for your money, obviously. In the bag is the cash I already got from Percival’s place” he said, glad that he had one of those voices that always sounded serious. Harry gave a small laugh of relief.

“This house gets to me, I say absolute bollocks to distract people from all the stuff. Honestly, it was either that line, or showing you my father’s butterfly collection,” Harry nodded quickly at the stairs, the walls covered with framed bright insects. They were silent for a while, looking at the atrocity. Merlin tried to digest that Harry actually said “bollocks”.

“Why don’t you put those things away?”

“Long story.”

“Mhhm.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“What?”

“I was going out for a quick lunch,” he stood back up and pointed at his own light grey suit.

“Do you know how to schedule _at all_?” Merlin exhaled through his nose.

“You _know_ I’m always late. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have three more houses to fix.”

“I’ll buy you a beer?”

Merlin just groaned.

***

 “Pardon the porn joke, I don’t know, it seemed funny at the moment. It’s not.”

The cafe was basically next door, well-lit and airy, they sat at a small round table, knees almost bumping. The terrier circled around the chairs, the staff obviously used to his tiny presence.

“At least you didn’t say 'pornography',” Merlin noted as Harry nodded to the waiter who asked if he’d have “the usual”, whatever that was.

"What?"

"You actually said a casual word. Out loud. You always go for the longest word possible.” The usual turned out to be a glass of Guinness, almost comically unsuitable for the cafe’s supposedly Mediterranean look, and some kind of ham sandwich. Merlin muttered “same” to the waiter, not as much because he chose it, as just not to break the conversation. “…The longest word, or something pretentious and French-sounding. You, know… like… debonair, bourgeois, _mauvais ton_.”

" _Pornographie_ ," Harry said into his glass, the word dulled by the acoustics. “Do I really sound so pretentious?”

Instead of an answer Merlin just made a “pffft” sound and rolled his eyes.

“Did you know,” Harry suddenly shifted in his chair, set his elbow on the table and pointed a long finger at Merlin, in a fun-fact fashion. Kingsman watch glinted on his thin wrist. Merlin, for a moment, thought that he's wasting time, “that the first porn movie was actually made by the French, so in this case my pretentious semi-French vocabulary would be almost appropriate?”

“Bloody hell, not only you live in a zoology museum,” Merlin accepted a glass from the waiter, took a sip of the dark bitter liquid, and eyed Harry over the rim with as much irony as he could muster. “You’ve studied history of porn as well.”

Looking more pleased with himself than the situation suggested, Harry didn’t as much give an explanation as he _served_ it, “It was art history, really, they had a brief cinema course. For some reason they thought it worth a mention. It’s a nice conversation starter, I guess.” He threw a bit of ham to Mr. Pickle, who licked it off the floor indifferently, leaving a small stain of saliva.

“I keep forgetting you’re so posh even your porn knowledge is academic.”

Harry flinched and didn’t answer.

***

There were a few front pages of The Sun pinned high up on the wall. Which wasn’t as bad at the butterflies, but did little to add any comfort. Merlin dragged a length of wire across the floor and set an ugly field-issue laptop on the desk.

“So, what, by the moment you reached this room you got into modern art?”

“Check the dates,” Harry recovered from the upper class jab by then and stood smug as ever, hands in pockets.

Merlin squinted to focus. Gave up and walked over to the paper in the corner to read the numbers. Ah, of course.

“Of course you would, you cheeky-“

Behind him the voice said “Alright, I have a question. Did Arthur assign you to watch me for some new test?”

Merlin whipped around, too surprised to give a good answer. “Why?”

“ We work together all the time, obviously. You probe the class thing. You hang around. You, well, watch.”

Merlin walked to the desk, uncomfortable with being stuck in the corner, and plugged the wire into the computer. “Why would Arthur trust me with something like that? I’m _Scottish_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s my question exactly.” Harry hovered at his elbow, head tilted in curiosity.

Merlin blinked. He punched the security code in and watched the progress scale light up as the software installed for the gadgets now scattered all around the house. The idea made him feel paranoid, but that was the occupational hazard.

 “And since when do you install security systems? It’s not your job, you’re overqualified.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” said Merlin tensely. Being picked apart and analyzed wasn’t in his plans. He reached to push his glasses up, grabbed the surface instead of the rim, cursed under his breath and took them off.

“What are you doing here?”

“ _I don’t know_ what the fuck I’m doing here,” Merlin muttered, wiping the glasses with a cuff of his sweater. In itself that line was a confession and, realizing that, he fumbled. The sleeve was too well-fitted to stretch, and wouldn’t let him clean the lenses properly. Merlin paused, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He felt Harry’s hand taking the glasses from him, strangely grateful to be relieved of the task. Harry pulled a deep red – burgundy? Was that the fancy word? - kerchief out of his breast pocket and set to cleaning methodically, his long fingers swift and precise. At some point he almost lifted the glasses to breathe on them, but changed his mind. “How much do you actually see without these?”

“Not much. The headlines,” Merlin pointed, “general shapes, the desk. You.”

“Sounds enough to me,” Harry said gravely, and finished polishing.

“Not much perspective though,” he took the glasses back. Harry didn't hold on, but his fingertips lingered on Merlin's knuckles.

“I'm not an idiot, Merlin. You still haven’t answered the question.”

“I’m not an idiot either. If Arthur finds -”

“Arthur doesn't care.”

“Until he does. It’s politics.” Merlin sighed, glasses still clutched in his hand. Maybe Arthur didn’t care about the precious Harry Hart, but every time he walked into the conference room, Merlin felt like a poor kid on scholarship. Too close to being kicked out for any minor offense.

There wasn’t a moratorium on relationships, of course, but the whole idea was frowned upon. It made you irrational, it messed with your choices. Team work and illogical self-sacrifice were definitely not the same thing. Besides, Merlin didn’t like to be frowned upon.

“Are you going to say it or not?”

Merlin’s nervousness boiled, turning slowly into something else. He didn’t like the feeling. The kind of pressure a deep-sea diver must feel, trapped in silence and darkness with no air. A blind desire to get back up to the surface, even if it made your lungs burst. Harry’s fingertips were back on his knuckles.

“ _Why. Are. You. Here_.”

“Don’t-“

“For god’s sake, Merlin-“

Their relationship would always be not as much a balance, as a seesaw of authority, dipping to either side, but then returning to status quo over and over again. A natural rhythm, like seasons and tides, pulse and exhales. When Harry tried to be smart, Merlin had a compulsive desire to shut him up.

“For god’s sake, Merlin, say it now, or don’t ever say it at all, because-“

The kiss was so aggressive, it was almost a bite at first, Merlin himself was surprised. But it did shut Harry up, his words crumbled into a soft “hmm” deep in his throat, his hand reaching for Merlin’s waist. Through the layers of tailored wool and cotton, he felt Harry’s heart pounding, like a trapped animal. Not the fluttering caged bird from an overused metaphor, but a heavy dark beat, pacing hungrily behind the bars. A flash of a thought: was it always like that, deep under the calm surface? In the conference rooms, on the battle fields, at the mission briefings and idle evening chats with the Knights, was Harry ever as placid as he seemed?

As if reading his mind Harry pulled away. Merlin wished he put the glasses on the desk, holding them awkwardly in his left hand now, his right hand still on Harry’s neck.

“How long does it take to install the system? By the standards?”

“What?”

“Average time?”

“Three hours.”

“How long do you need to install it?”

“One”

“Told you, you’re overqualified.” Merlin did’t respond to that one. “How long have we already spent?”

“One,” Merlin noticed the “we” with an almost electric shiver. His stomach felt cold, a stage-fright cold. “I have to install it in three more houses, remember?”

“Good god, you really signed up for the whole day?”

“I’m a spy, Galahad,” he said slowly, “I’m discreet.”

Harry pressed his forehead to Merlin's, a cosy familiar gesture one would never expect from him. “Will you come back?”

***

“I really wish I knew your name, I feel like an idiot.”

The next morning Harry stood near a tiny kiosk, looking at that day’s headlines. His dog sat at his feet, panting quietly, bright pink tongue lolling out. The weather promised to be too sunny to even be called English. Merlin’s head swam. He eyed the newspapers curiously, a paper cup of cheap coffee from some local place held in his shaky sleep-deprived hand.

“I’m breaking enough rules as it is,” he took a sip and nearly burned his tongue, “You seemed ok with calling me ‘oh god’ anyway”.

Harry, back to his toned-down self, almost smiled. “Your god complex is no business of mine,” and seeing Merlin’s hands shake, added, “You should stay at my house and get some sleep,” fully aware of Merlin officially living in a country cottage but really dwelling at the HQ as his workaholic habit.

“I have work. “

“Call in sick.”

“Don’t be-“

“If you press some red button accidentally, and start World War Three-“

“Alright, fine.”

Harry fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Merlin without a question. Without even looking away from the papers.

The Sun’s headline was _THE TRUTH_ typed across half the page, with some aliens on one side from it and some dark-alley murder on the other.

“They’re getting disappointingly vague,” he said and bought The Daily Mirror.

Merlin slept all day, curled up on the now-familiar bed, while, somewhere in the big world, Harry waged wars for both of them.

***

That day cut something open in Merlin, like a pocket knife cracking a shell, a dry creak and then a **_snap_** , an unclosable snap. He poured out. For the first week or two whenever he and Harry were in a room alone, he couldn’t shut up, wasn’t able to shut up, he’d just talk and talk and talk, Harry nodding in silent agreement, not daring to stop the torrent of words. He typed code and talked, loaded guns and talked, soldered microchips and talked, like a kid who’s too excited about an upcoming school play. He’d be fitting a new kind of bulletproof vest with a built-in microphone on Harry, ducking under his elbow, fixing his collar, tucking wires into the seams, and he’d chat away about all sorts of unrelated subjects. Unrelated to the mission, unrelated to each other, myriads of nothing-specials flying out of his mouth before he could even think of stopping himself. A weekend plan, some trivia on firearms, a line from a song he heard today and found simplistically brilliant, a school memory, an cheeky observation about Arthur’s mannerisms, a short blurt of “this isn’t right” before darting under Harry’s elbow again to check the vest’s seams.

Harry didn’t say much, if he said anything at all. His politeness reaching its peak, he reduced himself to a feeling, a presence, a watercolour brushstroke. He let Merlin happen. The only signs of his involvement in the dialogue were contextual. Not raising his arm high enough while Merlin fussed over the microphone wires on his side, so that Harry’s fingertips brushed his shoulderblade - a light fleeting sensation, soft, like warm summer wind. Not leaning away as Merlin mumbled something about the collar fitting wrong, so deep in his technical thought and so consumed by detail he nearly stuck that long nose of his into the thin gap between the collar and Harry’s neck.

Harry was just breathing. In and out, inhale, exhale. And hoped it all would last.

***

“What do you think would happen if someone brought a working class candidate?” Harry said, preparing for a new mission. It was undercover. Harry wasn’t exactly good at undercover work.

“What, because you can’t do accents, you want an agent specifically to blend with the _lads_?” Merlin sighed, distracted by piles of reports on his desk, “Why didn’t they assign this to Percival anyway? He’s good at that thing.”

“Percival is busy in Australia. I’m not talking about the accents now, I’m talking about-”

“Is there ever even _conflict_ in Australia?”

“Well, now that Percival is there, I guess there is.”

The initial suggestion dissipated in the air, Harry frowning, deep in thought.

***

In time they grew into an unspoken agreement, one they quietly treasured above all else – they allowed each other facades. They knew what made those facades fall away, and never pushed it.

Merlin’s seeming stoicism cracked when he was happy. He’d cheer at a football game, he’d smile like an idiot if a day was sunny. He cooed over Harry’s dog – named, as it turned out, Mr. Pickle, seriously -  like a 5-year old. He shut it all down masterfully when things got bad, and things got bad often when you were an international spy. He focused on the mission, as if he had tunnel vision, and all things personal hid shyly in periphery. Army taught him that. Watching dots on a radar blink and disappear, never to be seen again, taught him that.

Harry was his mirror opposite. His “sad” and “angry” were more of a “rampage”. His “happy”, meanwhile, was “barely noticeable complacent”. Something he picked up and cultivated in his high-society youth. Swimming in the same halls and corridors as lords, ladies, ambassadors, parliament members. Or, as he put it, “floating”. Society might be high, but his opinion of it wasn’t. By 1995 he pestered Arthur with requests to train kids from different backgrounds so much, that Arthur distributed looks poisonous enough to extract venom from the air. When it got to that, it was like Harry deliberately removed all filters. He quoted at Arthur almost aggressively. Historical texts, journalism of all levels, numbers. Arthur just nodded, like one nods at a spoiled child, making promises they never intend to keep.

***

 “You don’t know the Harts, right? Well, anyway, only people like the Harts are interested in the Harts.” Harry half-asked half-informed him once.

Merlin’s world was foggy without his glasses, so he just stared at the ceiling like it was an impressionist painting. He stayed at Harry’s so often, going between his own house, the HQ, then back in chaotic order, he felt like a traveler all the time - disoriented and full of abstract hope.

Instead of an answer he made a face. “I don’t have the clearance for background checks, and I’m not sure it would be much use to do a press archive search. Would it? I mean,” he wrinkled his nose like a pupil trying hard to remember the correct answer, “I mean, no offense, but most backgrounds in this agency are depressingly similar. And when I say ‘depressingly’ I mean-“

“You mean spoiled brats and big money,” Harry, staring at the same ceiling, back of his neck on Merlin’s outstretched elbow, shifted his weight and threw his head back even further, his adam’s apple boyishly prominent. “Well, I can’t vouch for the spoiled brat thing, but don’t worry about the money, I’m only getting this house and that’s it.”

“And why is that?”

“My father _somehow_ ,” he raised an eyebrow, “got this idea that I’m going to mark some charity organization in my will instead of family.”

“Are you?”

“Well if I wasn’t going to before he mentioned it, I certainly am now,” his eyes narrowed, “unless you want it, of course. I mean the house, not the… family, you don’t want my family, trust me.” And Merlin couldn’t even tell if he was joking. Probing the situation he gave a small laugh and said

“Harry, it’s a _house_.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged with insolent indifference, his shoulder pushing at Merlin’s arm for a brief moment, “It’s not like I’ll miss it if I kick the bucket.”

***

Being first and foremost a developer and inventor, Merlin hated to oversee missions. It gave him the creeps, like he was paralyzed and couldn’t do anything, only watch. He almost regretted making those glasses, he’d rather listen, the effect of presence not as brutal and vivid. Watching the feed he’d lurch in his chair every time the camera moved too fast, or accidentally knock over his cup, hot tea spilling on the keyboard. He even made the mistake of addressing Galahad as

_“Harry!”_

Too many things went wrong that day. The tea, the name, Harry getting a knife in his side while trying to get away (the blade sliding safely in on the right, only grazing his liver, Harry was lucky his opponent was left-handed). Too many things went wrong.

Lancelot died that day.

***

That one slip, that one “Harry” must’ve ticked Arthur off, because the official “no personal relationships between Kingsman employees” order was issued around that time. Not so bluntly, of course, a point buried between dozens and dozens of other rules in the papers, but both Harry and Merlin felt a jab. Obviously, all kinds of things happened between agents before, and would happen after, but the rule didn’t really mean a straightforward ban. It was a centuries-old legislative trick. What it meant was – if you have a grudge with Arthur, you better don’t get caught. And if anyone had a grudge with Arthur, that was Harry Hart.

The way Merlin found out about the changes was a sight to see. There he sat, in a low armchair, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, doing some number puzzle lazily as Harry read the new rules out loud.  Behind Harry the row of newspapers sported some new additions, marking time and saved lives. On the desk the Daily Mirror brought by Merlin – now a running joke - proclaimed _JUNGLE NESSIE_ (He actually peeked to check what that was about, which turned out to be a “dragon monster alligator”. Not bad at all.)

Harry read on in his lullaby voice, vowels smooth and soft, clause 1.33 the weapons protocol, clause 1.34 civilians, clause 1.35… His eyes flicked to the end of the page, then back up, across it, up again, before he said “Shit” with no expression whatsoever. Then he said “Fuck.” Turned to the window, said “Shit” again. Stood up slowly, as if unfolding himself to his height.

Merlin put the numbers away and was watching wide-eyed, because whatever just happened, kicked Harry off balance. Which meant two things – it was really bad, and Harry would take a while to gather himself again. It wasn’t even Harry’s _problem_ , it was his main character trait – he didn’t express himself, until he did. Everyday Harry Hart seemed to read himself out of a pulp dog-eared spy book. Well, not that his life wasn’t a spy book, but it looked like he even faked the _faking_. When the layers peeled back, Harry was raw, like an open wound.

“Fuck! Shit!” he slammed the pack of paper right on the Daily Mail, and turning away pressed his forehead to the red wall between the headlines.

Merlin walked around the desk instead of just turning the pages to face him and stood near Harry looking at the letters. The type was so small he finally had to pick the paper up for a closer look.

“What did you do?”

Harry just moaned quietly into the wall.

“What did you do, what could you possibly do to piss him off even more? Graffiti The Communist Manifesto all over the headquarters? Dance on his desk while singing _La Marseillaise_?”

“Lancelot.”

“Lancelot what?”

“I brought that Unwin kid to train for Lancelot.”

Merlin froze. The sharp focus, ruthless and logical, settling in as it always did when bad things happened. He gathered the papers and set them in the middle of the desk. Pushed the Daily Mirror to the corner of it. Stood breathing deep for a while, surveying the stupid headlines.

“You knew this would happen.”

 “I knew _something_ would.”

Merlin run his fingers across the page for the last time and slowly walked out of the room.

***

At some point that evening, Mr. Pickle running back and forth between them, they both agreed to “let it cool off”. Both proposed the idea within 2 seconds of each other after one of many long silences, and got a strange guilty look in their eyes, simulateously hurting and being hurt, only guiltier to break something that was so synchronized. The terrier jumped into Merlin’s lap, anchoring him to the chair so he couldn’t stand up and leave. Scratching the dog’s neck, an automatic gesture, Merlin wanted to cry, but suddenly realized that he couldn’t.

***

They kept themselves busy. Merlin was given full database access and promoted to a teaching position, hoping secretly that it wasn’t Arthur rewarding him for barely talking to Harry now. The job wasn’t tough, but it was messy. Only messier with the rest of recruits picking on young Unwin for all the wrong reasons. Merlin, forbidden to play favourites, could only watch and sometimes glare, the agony of helpless observation coming back in waves.

Training the new recruit was an irony in itself. Noticing the little details Lee Unwin picked up from Harry, Merlin didn’t even know if he should be glad or angry. The kid learned fast, which was good. But he learned from Harry, which wasn’t.

_“A spy organization is like an ancient god. You sacrifice your youth, you sacrifice your social relationships, you, most likely, make a final blood sacrifice.”_

***

Christmas season 1997, and Merlin was sweating away, holding his clipboard, only realizing in the back of his mind how ridiculous a man in army gear and gas mask looks with a clipboard. Harry circled the room, all questions and bullets, his voice, as usual, lower in any language other than English.

Then everything went to shit.

It was a series of images, not even proper motion, just flashes. The man on the chair looking up at Harry. Merlin not seeing what happened yet, but realizing from Harry’s shifting posture that something did. Unwin pushing Harry away with all his small man’s strength, the kind of strength Merlin never suspected in him. Harry stumbling back. Unwin tackling the man on the chair. A _sound_. A clould of sand. The _sound_ still singing, not even in the room, but inside Merlin’s head. His hands shaking. Not even his hands, his whole body trembling with shock.

Merlin scrambled to his feet, dust and pieces of stone everywhere, the scraping rodent kind of noise settling all over the room as bits kept falling, and chipping, and falling. Clipboard still clutched in his shaky hand, his stomach turning, Merlin looked around wildly. Harry was already on his feet, of course, like a cat, always on his feet.

"Shit. Fucking missed it." And then an offhand "I apologize for putting you in this position. You trained him well." Merlin, his eyes watery from the adrenaline, stared at Harry in disbelief. He knew he trained him well, busted his ass training and equipping and guiding, all to unwittingly make him Harry's overzealous guard. He hated the idea. Hated it even more, seeing that if not for Lee Unwin, they would’ve all been dead.

“I’ll deal with this mess personally.”

***

 “Put it all in the report.” Harry stood in the doorway of the control room, immaculate as ever. Not exactly like a person who just delivered a body bag to the morgue.

Merlin looked up from the screen.

“You didn’t think I would erase something just to make you look good?” he said sharply, feeling the sick sweet emotion of hitting a live target. So sweet it almost made him gag.

“I _know_ you wouldn’t. I wanted you to know I agree.” Before disappearing into the corridor Harry looked past him and added “If Arthur kicks me out, let him. Please, let him.”

The silence in the room after that was suffocating. Merlin typed in a key sequence and waited.

A window lit up on the screen with “DELETE: YES/NO” in bright green letters. In his greatest act of betrayal, Merlin reached out to the keys and pressed “Y”.

***

The first time Harry went to Merlin's place was at the end of 1997. The doorbell rang in the small house, few lazy Christmas ornaments along the walls, and Merlin walked across the room, confused. Nobody ever really visited. Harry, like in the movies where a drunk hero stumbles into someone's house and spills his soul out, stood at the door. Cold sober, and not planning to talk much.

All he said was "I saw his son" and walked into the room absent-mindedly, without asking permission. Sat down into a chair, realized he just intruded, stood up again and headed back towards the door, like a glitchy robot, Merlin still standing like an idiot with his arm outstretched. Then Harry's knees just buckled. He played if off as some weird clumsy drunken strut and sat down on the steps, staring at the horizon, like a farmer from an old book illustration. Merlin, still holding the door, felt his teeth beginning to chatter. His breath came out in small clouds of vapour.

 “Get inside, it’s freezing.”

Instead of a response Harry shifted his farmer pose, covered his face with his hands and exhaled.

“It’s freezing and you’re wearing a fucking suit, Harry, get inside. Wait, how did you even get here?” He saw two thick stripes from car tires on the snow in some distance. A cab, probably.

Harry stood up and walked down the steps, away to the stone path.

“Why the fuck did you even come here?” yelled Merlin at his back, louder than needed, but just loud enough to express an opinion. Echoing the question Harry asked him years ago.

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Harry echoed the answer before slipping on the ice and landing on his back with a heavy thud.

“Great.”

***

“I trained him, you know. You may have noticed that I was there. He made a choice, that’s what people do. He could’ve run out of the room, but he didn’t, he made a _choice_.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Yes, and I advice you tell yourself the same.”

The first thing Harry did after stumbling into the house was tearing off his ever-neat tie and jacket with such hate that Merlin thought he’d go and burn down the HQ next. Merlin crossed his arms and waited, like a parent, or a doctor. But Harry just stood in the middle of the room confused, blood dripping down his neck from the cut on the back of his head where it hit the stones, his collar growing a wet dark stain. The Christmas ornaments blinked and shimmered mockingly. At the sight of a snow globe Harry inhaled sharply through his nostrils.

 “Harry-“

“ _Galahad_.” Harry corrected, reaching back and touching his sticky hair. Then staring, surprised, at the red on his hand.

Now he was sitting on a kitchen chair, wearing Merlin's old sweater, the sleeves just an inch too long for him. Merlin stood behind him, cleaning the cut. Harry _tsk_ ed and _ouch_ ed his way through the process.

“You’re not going back like that, are you?”

Instead of an answer Harry just leaned back, his head warm against Merlin’s chest. It would leave a blood stain on his shirt, one that Merlin never managed to wash off.

***

_“Alright, I’ll take the cab,” Merlin rolls his eyes, “And you do the dishes.” He reaches past Harry, ignoring the judging look, and puts the empty tea mug in the sink._

_“Merlin?” Harry looks him up and down with a deeply concerned expression. Lost people look at maps like that. People in debt look at bank account numbers like that. The “how do I fix this” look._

_“Hmm?”_

_Still staring at the middle of Merlin’s chest Harry asks “Did you take my shirt on purpose or do you need new lenses?”_

_Merlin pushes his glasses up on his nose automatically and looks down at his shirt as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “Wh-“_

_They stand silent for a moment, before Harry smirks._

_“Oh, for god’ sake, Merlin, I’m joking, they’re identical.”_

_“Jesus Chr-r-ist,” he turns around and goes to get his coat._

_“ I’m not even sure I’m not wearing yours.”_

_“Aah, of course,” Merlin is checking his coat pockets for his phone, pen, wallet, “anyway, see you in... I don’t know, two hours?”_

_“One and a half,” Harry corrects._

_“Two.”_

_“One and a-“_

_“ **Two** ,” Merlin pushes through the door like a cat, without fully opening it, one shoulder first, then the rest of him, and adds from the outside, “You’re always late.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Re: name politics. I worked with an idea that the general politics got loose by 2014 (mostly because Arthur stopped caring about the agency), but Merlin held on to his code name, simply because no one called him by his real one for too long. I had a separate passage about this, but it didn't fit into the story, maybe I'll elaborate later.


End file.
